by Jon Ziegler
THE HOW-NOT-TO GUIDE TO PARENTING AND MARRIAGE
By Jon Ziegler
For Cynthia, Hannah, Natalie
And all the friends and family who inspired and
Encouraged my writing.
CONTENTS
A quick note from the author.
1. I was born without a romance gland.
2. Intention is not completion.
3. Cinnamon raisin mango ice cream.
4. Decorating with a husband’s touch.
5. Communication fail.
6. I am not a morning person.
7. Second child syndrome.
8. The smudge.
9. The huge book of horrifying diseases.
10. Our family justice system.
11. I can’t do this!
12. Teaching our pets to be more self-sufficient.
13. Who’s training who?
14. She’s talking to my butt.
15. Waves of parenting.
16. Easter
17. Shopping
18. The normal family show.
19. Driving with children.
20. The horror.
21. The horror (revised)
22. Showering genius.
23. Buckle up for insanity.
24. The dentist.
25. I’m not a sports dad.
26. Happy light.
27. Friday night.
28. Signs of the end of the world.
29. Turning over a new leaf.
30. Children’s art.
31. Organization mayhem.
32. Helpful household tips.
33. Vicious cycle.
34. Things to do while your wife watches her dumb shows.
35. The violence of passive aggressiveness.
36. I love you or highway to hell.
37. The one thing you cannot force a child to do.
38. What goes on in the bathroom.
39. Mystery
40. In your Face(book)
41. Horse freak.
42. Cool dad.
43. The audience.
44. Laundry hints for the helpful husband.
45. The never ending battle.
46. My music.
47. The traumatic changes to one’s life associated with getting married.
48. On daughters and dating.
49. The playground of death!
50. Questions that have no answer.
51. As it should be.
52. The behaviorizer.
53. Vomit holocaust.
54. Anti-OCD.
55. Lawn management.
56. Why would she do that to me?
57. Happy birthday.
58. Feast of burden.
59. The bacon festival.
60. Children are made in a convenient size.
61. A solution to the child transport nightmare.
62. The inevitable erosion of your parental values.
63. The wall of shame.
64. The ever forth-coming garage sale.
65. How dare you bowl with my wife!
66. Ode to my couch.
67. How does that make you feel?
68. The dinner menu.
69. What happened?
70. The unsaid language of love.
71. Do as I say, not as I do.
72. That’s not funny.
73. Why old people smell funny.
A QUICK NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
The How-Not-To Guide To Parenting and Marriage started out as a blog several years ago. It was a place where I could write down all the ridiculous stories that constantly float around in my head. Much to my surprise, there seemed to actually be people who derived some amusement from the stories, and you might say, even enjoyed them.
But as life got busier raising our two girls, I soon found less and less time to fool around with writing stories for the site, and I stopped.
After a several year lapse, the site was resurrected as a Facebook page of the same name, and again, there seemed to actually be some people who enjoyed reading the silly stories.
This book is a collection of the stories that have appeared over the years, on both the blog and the Facebook page. Nearly all of the stories were inspired by events that have taken place in the lives of myself and family members, but very few of them are without some exaggeration. I will leave you guessing as to which parts are made up, and which situations are actually true. In fact, if there is any particular part of the book that offends or angers you, please assume that this section of the book was purely fictional.
I do own all rights to the stories and the book, so please don’t publish your own book with a title and stories that are the same as mine. You are, however, encouraged to read the stories to any and all like-minded folk who might enjoy hearing them. You are also free to promote, and insist that your friends purchase the book. You can even tell them that you feel that anyone who hasn’t purchased the book couldn’t possibly be a friend of yours.
So as you read the stories, have a laugh, and take solace in the knowledge that you are not the only imperfect parent out there!
1. I WAS BORN WITHOUT A ROMANCE GLAND.
Much to my wife's disappointment, I think I must have been born without a romance gland. Being romantic just doesn't come naturally to me, and my efforts to fake it just don't seem to work out all that well.
For instance, I know that women love to get flowers, but I just can't seem to get over paying that much money for something that only lasts a few days, and has no function other than to sit in a vase and look pretty. It might be different if you could put them in a vase for a few days, and then be able to eat them . . . . . or if they could play Pink Floyd songs.
One time, being aware that my wife loved to receive flowers, I tried to bypass the cost of buying them by sending my four year old daughter over to my neighbor's yard to pick a bouquet of free flowers for her. I figured this way, she gets her flowers, and I avoid the agony of paying for something that has no practical purpose. It seemed like a win-win situation. But unfortunately, I failed to notice that my darling child had included a number of sticks, and a skeletonized bird leg in the bunch. My wife did not fail to notice. It would seem that practicality is the enemy of romance.
I have learned from similar attempts at practical romance, to avoid things like thrift store lingerie, hotels that rent their Honeymoon suite by the hour, and champagne bought at flea markets. M&M’s do not count as a box of chocolates, and don't try combining romantic weekend getaways with Star Trek conventions or fishing tournaments.
Now that I'm thinking about it, I believe my lack of a romance gland may have even affected my dating life before I got married. I never went for all the clever pickup lines. I always preferred to be concise and to the point with something like, "how old are you, and how much do you weigh?"
I know someday they will find a cure for having not been born with a romance gland. Or maybe they will just start removing them from women like a diseased tonsil. Until then, I will continue to try . . . . . and fail at faking it.
2. INTENTION IS NOT COMPLETION.
When the subject of building a new house came up, I only said, to my wife, that I plan on building it myself, and she instantly put her head in her hands and started groaning.
"I want to be able to actually move into it before we die!" she said in a tortured tone.
I hadn't even mentioned to her that I also plan on buying a sawmill, and making all the boards as well.
"You have no faith in me. You act like I never finish anything!", I answered somewhat offended.
Without a word, she stood up and walked into the kitchen. When she ret
urned, she was holding a list of tasks that I had told her to make one time when I had forgotten to get her a birthday present. Along with the creation of the list, came the promise that I would complete her top ten projects around the house as her gift.
"This was my birthday list you promised to complete six years ago", she said, holding the sun faded paper up my face. "And how many have you completed?"
"Ummmm . . . .” I mumbled, trying to find at least one item I had completed. "There! . . . . I fixed the picnic table", I said pointing to the list.
"No!” she snapped back, “Getting angry and setting the picnic table ablaze with gasoline doesn't count as fixing it!"
As I looked over the list, I realized that she might be right. Of the ten things on the list, I hadn't even started seven of them, two were half done, and then there was the picnic table, which apparently didn’t count.
It's not like I hadn't done anything for the last six years. It just always seemed like other more important things always came up, like helping my neighbor Robert turn his mother's coffin into a go-cart (they decided to cremate her at the last minute).
But it seemed I had trouble completing the replacement tasks as well. The coffin go-cart has been behind Robert's garage without front wheels or a motor for five years now. The tree house I was so excited to build for my kids was mostly complete, except for the ladder to get up to it. Each spring, my girls make a list of things to do in the tree house if the ladder is ever completed so that they can get up there.
I think that the government must put something in our milk that prevents men from completing things. Probably so that if we ever revolt, and try to take over the government, we would get 95% to victory, and then just all stop shooting and go home and lay on the couch.
But I've decided that I'm going to change all that right now. I'm going to get the birthday list and start at the top . . . . . well, I mean as soon as the Abbot and Costello marathon is over.
3. CINNAMON RAISON MANGO ICE CREAM
Last night, as our family gathered in the living room to await the season premiere of our favorite detective show, my wife announced that she was taking orders for an ice cream run.
"Caramel English Toffee", I said without needing to give it a second thought, because for me, there is no other ice cream on earth. I even dream about eating it.
My daughters also put in their orders, and off she went to the store.
After what seemed like an eternity, my wife returned with the grocery bag that contained my lactose drug of choice . . . . . or so I thought.
She sat the bag on the table and began to rummage through it, pulling out chips, soda, the girls’ choice of ice cream . . . . . the anticipation was killing me. I was like a hungry dog that was being teased with a piece of bacon held over its head. I could hardly stand the wait. Then finally, she pulled out the final item from the bag, and handed it to me. My hands trembled as I grasped the cold, heavenly pint of . . . . . . Cinnamon Raisin Mango Ice Cream?
My brain froze. The little hour glass started spinning in the middle of my brain screen, like a computer that was about to crash. Was this a joke? I studied her face for any signs that the ice cream I was holding in my hand, was not the ice cream I was expected to eat.
"Ummm . . . . . . Uh, this isn't . . . ."
"I know. I saw this and thought you might like it better", she said without even letting me finish my sentence.
Now, I'm not crazy about cinnamon, and I'm neutral on mango at best, but I HATE raisins. I really hate raisins. In fact, If I ever found myself hopelessly surrounded by zombies in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and an army truck full of life-sized, gun wielding raisins came roaring up to save me, I would probably tell them that I was doing alright on my own, and take my chances that a truck full of gun wielding chocolate chips would happen by.
"Well, uhh, I don't really like raisins"
"Yes you do", she said matter of factly.
I pondered a moment on her answer, and it slowly began to occur to me that I might be entering into an argument about what I like and don't like, which seemed odd to me.
In nearly every other argument I can think of, fact takes president over personal opinion. But in the argument over what I like and don't like, personal opinion would carry more weight . . . . . especially MY opinion.
"I'm pretty sure I don't like raisins", I said cautiously.
"Yes you do", she answered again, only this time, with a confidence that led me to believe that I might actually lose the argument over what I like and don't like.
After a few more pathetic attempts at convincing my wife that I didn’t like raisins, I confirmed that the argument was indeed unwinnable. I was apparently wrong about not liking raisins. Besides, she was kind and thoughtful enough to make the ice cream run, so I sat down and started eating the ice cream with all the determination of someone enduring a colonoscopy.
By now, the show had started, and the distraction provided me with the opportunity to sneak the majority of the raisins to our dog Pippy, who gulped them down with much enthusiasm.
I determined that it was crucial that she didn't catch me feeding them to the dog, because neither the dog nor I had asked her if the dog actually likes raisins. For all we knew, the dog might also be mistaken on whether it liked raisins or not.
4. DECORATING WITH A HUSBAND’S TOUCH
How, in our culture, has it become accepted that the wife is the decorator of the house? Why is it such a crime for me to hang my Pink Floyd "Wish You Were Here" poster in the living room? What's wrong with white walls? How many candles are too many in a given room? These questions have been plaguing me since my wedding day.
Before my wife moved into my apartment and ruined everything, I had a cool living room. The Pink Floyd poster was the center piece on the wall, flanked by a battle-ax and a samurai sword that I had gotten awesome deals on at the flea market. On my coffee table sat a stuffed armadillo, and in the corner stood a one armed mannequin dressed in a tan, suede tuxedo, and a Viking's helmet. The refrigerator stood next to the couch, giving me easy access to the beer crisper, without needing to stand up and walk into the kitchen.
But it’s all gone now. There is not a shred of manliness left in the room. Every object decorating the space falls into one of three categories; flower-plant, candle, or huge word (the huge words are hung or painted on the wall and say things like 'LOVE' or 'FAMILY' or some cheesy saying that no self-respecting man would ever utter.
The walls have been painted a baby poop yellowish-brown, except for the brilliant red 'accent' wall, which makes my head hurt and my ears ring when I look at it for too long.
She has had her way with the bathroom as well. It’s a light purple color, and she has hung mirrors everywhere to make the small space look bigger. Mirrors in the bathroom are fine for the vanity, but why do I need one hanging where I can see myself sitting on the toilet? And not just one angle, I can view myself sitting from the front or side view. . . . . . . I never really realized what funny faces I make when I'm pooping. There is also a small mirror hanging over the back of the toilet that provides a near perfect image of my stomach to knee area when standing in front of the toilet. A floral print shower curtain now hangs where my Star Wars shower curtain once hung.
She has taken over the entire house. Like a virus, the candles, plant material, huge words and mirrors have spread into every room. All I have left is my shed. It's where my Pink Floyd poster now hangs and my armadillo resides. It’s where I go and sit, when the grief over losing my man-inspired decorating themes.
It would seem that I have no say left when it comes to our choice in home fashion, but at least I still have my shed. If she ever gets the crazy idea to decorate my shed, I'll burn it to the ground! I'd rather see it ablaze than defiled with the "wife decorating virus".
COMMUNICATION FAIL
When my daughter Hannah was younger, my wife began spelling words that we didn't want her to hear.
"Do you want to take H-A-N-N-A-H to
the C-I-R-C-U-S?"
But I readily admit that I am not the greatest at spelling, and I do not remember long sequences of numbers or letters well. So often when she rattled off something like "we need to get supplies for the S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y P-A-R-T-Y”, I would still be sounding out the surrrrr...... While she was finishing the R-T-Y.
If I was actually able to figure out the first syllable or word, I would have already forgotten the letters that made up the rest of the secret phrase. It would sometimes take as long fifteen minutes to sound out, ask her to repeat letters, sound out, ask her to repeat letters and so on.
And then one day, I had just begun the intricate process of sounding out the letters C-A-R-N-I-V-A-L, when Hannah piped up, "Carnival. It spells carnival, dad". My daughter could not only spell, but she could do it quite a bit faster than me.
To overcome the problem of my six year old daughter being able to out-spell me, my wife began spelling things backwards. I feel there could be only one reason for her to think that this would be a good idea, and that would be to humiliate me.
So now, whenever she spat out a backwards spelled word, I had to run and find a pen and paper, ask her to repeat it so I could write it down, and then start at the last letter translating the backwards word back to a forward word, so that I could then begin the sounding out process. At this point, it was taking as long as a half hour for me to sound out some of the longer backward words and phrases.
But again, it was only a matter of months before my daughter could decode the backwards secret word before I could even locate my pen and paper. So now, instead of my wife and I using word spelling to keep things secret from my daughter, my wife and daughter have begun to spell out words and phrases backwards that they don't want ME to know.
"Don't tell dad that we T-U-O W-E-R-H-T his favorite pair of S-R-E-K-A-E-N-S Y-E-L-O-H."
It has become so infuriating, that I have decided to learn Latin from a book that I bought at a garage sale. And once I do, I will be able to say things that they won't be able to understand......just other Latinese people..... If I can find any.